


Till the Day I Die

by 42 Is the Answer (essyr)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Fat Shaming, Gen, Magic Reveal, Post Season 4, canon-verse, though it also happens in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1955469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essyr/pseuds/42%20Is%20the%20Answer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A normal hunt with Arthur and the Roundtable Knights goes awry when bandits attack. Post Season 4 reveal-fic. Character death. One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till the Day I Die

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the TV series, Merlin. I also did not come up with the concept of a spell that can remove one’s magic; as far as I know, EnglandBabe1997 did in her fanfic, Spring Cleaning. It’s fantastic and you should all check it out. I have her permission to use this idea; I thought it was great and just sort of took it and ran with it.  
> 

 

> _"Are you ever going to change, Merlin?"_
> 
> _"No, you’d get bored. Promise me this: if you get another servant, don’t get a bootlicker."_
> 
> _"If this is you trying to leave your job…"_
> 
> _"No. I’m happy to be your servant till the day I die."_

_~ “Le Morte D’Arthur” S01E13 (01x13)_

* * *

 

It started out quite innocently; just another hunting trip with Arthur and the knights. Merlin, as usual, was cooking dinner, while the knights all chatted gaily around the fire. Gwaine had been going on about one of his tall tales while the others were listening intently. After all, Gwaine may be drunk, but he was certainly an excellent storyteller.

Of course, his story was cut short when Merlin brought the pot over with the freshly cooked stew.

“Oh thank god, I’m starving!” Arthur said. As usual, he was first in line, and Merlin had filled his bowl up.

“Well, I’m not a god, but it’s nice to know that you think I am,” Merlin smiled. He ladled another share into the next knight’s bowl- Gwaine’s.

“Looks good, Merlin. Did I mention that I was the one who caught the rabbit?”

Percival, who was behind Gwaine, laughed. “Sure, Gwaine. Not like the rabbit was tiny or anything. The majority of the soup’s actually from the birds I shot down. _Not_ the rabbit.”

The knights dug into their dinner, while Merlin sighed. Not enough for him again. Who knew? Apparently, one small rabbit, five pigeons, and two potatoes _wasn’t_ enough to feed six men, not if five of those men were giant, muscly knights who needed lots of food.

Merlin gritted his teeth and scooped the dregs of the stew out into his plate- two chunks of potatoes and a bit of broth. He ate it quickly before placing his bowl and utensils into the pot. Once the knights were done, he’d take their utensils with him to wash in the stream.

“Merlin, you really outdid yourself this time! We really can give you anything and you can make it taste good,” Elyan called. Merlin smiled, remembering the rat stew he once fed Arthur. Apparently, Arthur had too. “That might be stretching it a bit,” the king replied.

“Really? Everything that I’ve experience from Merlin’s cooking points to it being delicious,” Percival said.

“Well, back before any of you came to Camelot, there was a famine. Leon, you remember, right? All the crops died and the water that ran out of the pump turned into sand,” Arthur explained.

Leon nodded. “Of course, sire. Everything was rationed. We didn’t have water, we didn’t have food. All we had was the grain in storage, and that was rationed out among all of the citizens.”

“Arthur was always complaining that he wasn’t eating much, so I decided to give him a little extra meat,” Merlin smirked.

“What’d you cook, Merlin?” Elyan asked.

“Rat. He gave me rat stew.” Arthur’s tone was flat.

The knights all burst into laughter.

“This’ll make a fantastic tale to tell next time I’m at the tavern! The King of Camelot, fed rat stew!” Gwaine roared.

Arthur grimaced. “All right, all right. I only took a couple bites. Merlin here had half the bowl.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “He made me!” he retorted.

* * *

Merlin sat by the fire, staring into the flames. He looked around, making sure that everyone was asleep before turning back to the fire. “ _Æledfýr út_ ,” he whispered. Suddenly, it went out, with nothing but the light of the moon and stars illuminating the forest. For a while, he just sat in the darkness, sat in silence. He could hear the knights snoring- all of them did, even Arthur, no matter how much he tried to deny it.

As he sat, he _thought_. As usual, he was contemplating about telling Arthur the truth about his magic. It’d been nearly a decade since he arrived in Camelot, and so far, it seemed like nothing could ever tear their friendship- if you could call it that- apart. They’d been through so much together, and if Arthur could turn his back on him now after all that, then perhaps Arthur wasn’t as good of a friend as he thought he was.

Sighing, Merlin closed his eyes. When he blinked them open, his eyes flashed gold for just a moment, and the fire came alive once more. He was learning to embrace the side of him that could do magic without spells, the instinctual, more animalistic side. Spells let him use more powerful magic that he couldn’t control by himself yet, but he found that once he had mastered it, his own instinctual magic was much easier to control than the spells. Unlike with the spells, Merlin could decide and control every aspect of the magic he would cast, leaving little or nothing to chance.

Concentrating, his eyes flashed again, this time concentrating on the smoke. The shapeless blob quickly formed into a dragon, much like the one on the Camelot coat-of-arms. It was nearly the same tactic as the one that he had used years ago, back during Uther’s reign and when he had accidentally been spotted by a peasant, leading to the Witchfinder and all that _unpleasant_ ness. Of course, he had much more control over it now, and he was positive that everyone was asleep. They were in the middle of the woods; there would be no one wandering around this late at night and they were all asleep.

Merlin yawned. He was beginning to feel sleepy. “ _Gewærlæce mec_ ,” he muttered. He could feel the wards go up. They’d do little against an actual attack, but they’d wake him up if anyone- or thing- with belligerent intent came within a hundred feet of the camp.

He laid down on his bedroll, on the other side of the fire from the knights. It’d always been this way. No matter how close they were, it was always Merlin and the Knights. No matter how much they respected him, it was still always Merlin and the Roundtable. And no matter how many times Merlin had saved all of their lives, it would still always be the Servant and the Knights.

* * *

Arthur woke up the next morning to someone shaking him.

“Gerroff!” he yelled. Or at least he wanted to. But yelling took effort. And it was too early to use effort. So he mumbled it instead.

“Nuh uh. Up and at ‘em, Lazy-Daisy!” his manservant said cheerfully.

Arthur groaned. It was one thing for Merlin to wake him up like this in Camelot, where they were alone. It was completely different when they were out on a hunting trip with others, others who happen to be knights that he respected a lot. Feeling around his bedroll, Arthur soon found a rock and hurled it at Merlin, who ducked, used to this aspect of their morning routine.

“Come on, sire!” he called, “You can do better than that! Even _I_ could do better!”

Arthur grumbled.

“Anyways,” Merlin continued, “I just finished making breakfast. There’s rabbit stew, this time with more rabbit than stew. Leon caught it.”

Arthur rolled over, facing away from Merlin. He sighed. “Oh well,” he said, “I guess you don’t really _need_ breakfast today. I mean, you’ve got to start watching your weight, right? I had to add _another_ hole to your belt yesterday before we set out. In fact, you might need a new one soon. This one seems to be getting a bit short.”

“I’m not _fat_!” Arthur shouted indignantly. “If I want to eat, I’ll eat!” With that, he got out of his palette and took the bowl of stew Merlin had been holding. The little snot had known he would’ve gotten up! Arthur quickly looked down at his belt. _One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine notches._ “You lied!” he cried, realizing that Merlin hadn’t actually made another notch.

“I needed to get you up,” he shrugged unapologetically.

Arthur let out an exasperated sigh. At least he might as well eat the stew Merlin made. After all, his cooking _was_ really good.

* * *

The day’s hunt was just about as successful as the one before- not at all. As usual, Merlin used a _tiny_ bit of magic to scare their prey away, or he’d trip and make some sort of noise. Arthur and the knights were used to this by now, and honestly, the only reason why they still went on these unsuccessful trips was, well, he didn’t know. For some reason, the Roundtable decided that it was fun to subject themselves to the great outdoors, trying to kill an animal that they would never be successful in killing because Merlin didn’t approve. But then again, perhaps it was nice to get away from all the politics and pressures of being king.

They’d been taking a break from their hunting. As usual, the Roundtable knights, who were absolutely exhausted, were gathered around, listening to Gwaine tell another tall tale. Merlin had been sitting close by, playing around with his neckerchief. He twirled the frayed edges around his fingers, smiling. He loved moments like these, with everyone gathered together, laughing and having fun. It was really on of the most perfect things in the world.

Of course, it was also a really perfect time for everything to go wrong.

* * *

Merlin felt a twinge. It was a cold feeling- it made the hairs on the back of his neck raise in alarm and his heartbeat immediately quickened. It was a terrible feeling, with an even more terrible meaning; his ward had been set off.

“Arthur,” he said.

The king had been laughing at Gwaine’s story. “What now, _Mer_ lin?” he asked, annoyed.

“I have a funny feeling. Perhaps we should go somewhere else.”

Arthur stopped. Merlin’s “funny feelings” typically turned into bandits attacking. Or sorcerers. Or wyverns. Or really just anything bad. It was like the manservant was psychic or something. He took these “feelings” very seriously. But he couldn’t exactly _publicly_ acknowledge that he believed everything his _servant_ said. But then again, he was with the Roundtable. They all like Merlin and respected him. They’d listen. Plus they’ve been out on enough quests, patrols, and hunting trips with Merlin to know that his “funny feelings” meant serious business. Merlin was like their trouble-detector. If he felt funny, then Arthur should listen to him.

But what if his manservant was wrong? He’d have made his tired men get up and move camp for nothing. They needed rest and Arthur didn’t want to take that from them.

On the other hand, what if Merlin was right and he ignored him? He’d have the injuries- possibly deaths- of his men on his conscience. How cruel it’d be to doom his men just because he didn’t want to seem foolish for relying so much on his manservant’s “feelings”.

Of course, during this indecisive internal monologue, time was still passing. And during that time, well, the attackers weren’t just going to stand and wait.

* * *

There were ten of them. Ten masked, well-trained, nearly identical mercenaries. Five of whom had magic. Each one was trained to be at least as skilled as a knight of Camelot- some were even among the same as those of the Roundtable. Of course, no one was as powerful a fighter as Arthur. Except, the mercenaries had an advantage. They had magic.

* * *

The fight wasn’t going well. Elyan had been injured- a mace to the leg- and was hiding behind a few bushes, attempting to tend to his wound. The others were tired; they’d killed four of the mercenaries (non-magic, of course), but the remaining six were proving to be formidable foes.

Merlin was getting anxious. He’d been helping out- little things, such as tripping a mercenary, or _ever so slightly_ moving a weapon into the reach of one of the knights- and big things, such as shooting the mercenaries with the crossbow that he’d grabbed, and well, blocking the sorcerers’ access to magic. But none of these seemed to be enough. Leon was beginning to weaken, Percival seemed to have pulled one of those big muscles of his, Gwaine was trying to take on two mercenaries at once (he always did like bad odds), and even Arthur was beginning to wonder if they’d make it out alive. Truth was, they probably wouldn’t, not unless if something _miraculous_ , something _impossible_ turned the tide. And Merlin knew it.

* * *

The battle hadn’t been getting any better. They’d manage to kill the last remaining non-magic mercenary, but the five sorcerers were still going strong. It was five to six, except Merlin didn’t really count, as he was absolutely terrible in physical combat and had run out of bolts for his crossbow. All he could do now was, well, hide up in that tree of his.

Arthur could only hope that something would turn the battle around now. But then again, he supposed that he was glad that the sorcerers were being somewhat honorable and stopped using magic after the very beginning of the battle. If they started casting spells again, who knew how much more quickly the battle would have ended. Instead, he and the knights were still fighting, but they couldn’t hold it much longer. Any second, he felt like his arms were going to fall off from exhaustion, and he could tell that the rest of the Roundtable was feeling it, too. If only he’d just _listen_ to Merlin and not have had that internal monologue debating whether or not to believe his fr- _manservant_. In a way, it was all his fault. He had endangered the lives of his men by overthinking. One of the first things Uther had taught him was that pondering options was for when he was _off_ the battlefield, when he was certain of his safety. _During_ battle, it was all reflexes and instinct, perhaps a little strategizing, but thinking while being in danger of attack was possibly one of the worst things a fighter, whether he was a prince, knight, mercenary, prize fighter, soldier, or guard, could do. All Arthur could hope now was that something would intervene.

* * *

Merlin could feel it. He could see it. He could hear it. Hell, he could even _smell_ it. If he tried hard enough, maybe he’d be able to taste it, too. But it was undeniable; the knights were going to lose unless if he did something. He could see them, barely standing, hear the blades clashing, smell the spilt blood. And inside of him, there was a little something that was urging him to fight back, to save his king and his men. His friends.

Merlin took a deep breath. After this battle was over, he could potentially die. No, screw that; he’d pretty much _definitely_ die. After all, Arthur wasn’t his father, but he’d lost so much because of magic- both his parents, Gwen for a while, Lancelot, his (half-)sister. He remembered what Arthur had said to him the day his father died- _“All I know for sure is that I’ve lost both my parents to magic. It is pure evil and I’ll never lose sight of that again.”_ His chances of still living after exposing himself has a sorcerer ( _No, warlock,_ a little voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Kilgarrah corrected) were slim. Miniscule. Almost nonexistent. But he couldn’t live with the deaths of his friends on his conscience, not when he knew that he could have directly stopped it. Not when he knew that he had chosen to save his own life over theirs.

“Goodbye, Arthur. This is the last time you’ll ever see me as an ally,” he whispered.

And with that, he unleashed the power inside him.

* * *

It was a miracle. Arthur had never been so grateful for anything.

The mercenary he was fighting- along with the other four- was thrown into the air. There, they hovered for a moment before being slammed into the ground, necks broken, splayed out like a rag doll. They stared, eyes unseeing, and their bodies twisted grotesquely, as many of their bones were broken.

The knights couldn’t really believe it. Just moments ago, they’d been fighting for their lives, grossly outmatched. And now this.

Gwaine was the first one to notice Merlin coming down from his tree. He nudged Arthur and he turned around, seeing that his manservant was, thankfully, alive. His eyes were cast downwards, as if he didn’t want to meet the eyes of the knights, as if he felt guilty about something. About what, Arthur wasn’t sure. He was just glad that everyone survived. They, a small group of five knights, had taken on a group of ten mercenaries, five of them being sorcerers, all highly trained, and lived to tell the tale without any dead. It was a thing to be grateful for, a thing to be proud of. And Arthur couldn’t be any happier that his friends were alive.

* * *

It didn’t last, of course. It took Arthur about five minutes of relieved laughter, checking on Elyan, and ordering Merlin around before he realized that the only thing that could’ve made the sorcerers all fly up into the air like that and then smash into the ground was magic. He’d been in the middle of overseeing Merlin wrap Elyan’s wound when the fact came crashing down on him.

“There’s a sorcerer still here,” he suddenly said, voice serious.

“What’re you talking about, Princess? They’re all dead, remember? They got blasted into the arm and then-” Gwaine didn’t finish the sentence as the realization dawned on him as well. “Surely he wouldn’t hurt us. I mean, he just saved our lives. Who goes to save someone just to kill them later?”

“Someone who wants the pleasure of killing the King of Camelot himself,” Arthur said. “Who was it?” he shouted. “Where are you? Show yourself!”

The other knights looked around warily, not sure if their king and friend had just gone mad. Arthur did have a valid point; only sorcery could have done something like that. The sorcerer who did it would still be around, right? And if he was around, he’d be dangerous.

Merlin still looked uncomfortable. He was tugging at his neckerchief now as if it was too tight.

“Merlin?” Arthur asked, noticing his manservant behaving oddly, “Are you alright?”

Merlin looked up. “Of course, sire,” he said, not quite meeting his eyes.

Arthur snorted. “Now I know there’s something wrong with you! You never address me that formally! What is it, Merlin?”

Merlin looked uncertain. “It’s about the sorcerer. The one who killed the mercenaries,” he started.

“Really,” Arthur said, slightly dubious. “Now tell me, _Mer_ lin, why would you know anything about that? Did you see him while hiding up in that tree of yours?”

Merlin shook his head. “No,” he said, gathering confidence, “I _am_ him.”

* * *

Arthur burst out laughing. “Are you sure that you didn’t hit your head falling out of that tree, _Mer_ lin? Or are you just joking around with me?”

Merlin clenched his jaw. He’d already gone so far, might as well reveal the truth. If he denied it now, he’d be _directly_ lying to Arthur.

“ _Forb_ _ærne_ ,” he breathed, eyes flashing gold. A small fire lit in his hand, hovering about an inch from his palm. He could feel the stunned stares of the knights and he looked down, unable to meet their eyes. He let the fire go out, and his hands fell to his sides. “It was me,” he said, kneeling before his king, head bowed, “the judgment is yours to make.”

* * *

Arthur looked at the manservant kneeling in front of him, putting himself at the king’s mercy. A king who has grown up hating magic beyond all else. A king who condemns those who practice it to die. It was quite a stupid decision. But then again, Merlin had never been one to make good decisions.

He could feel the eyes of his knights around him, all looking on with a mix of disbelief and apprehension. Disbelief because there was no way _Merlin_ of all people could be a sorcerer, and yet he just proved it. Apprehension because they knew the law of the land. Merlin’s demonstration right then had just proved that he had magic, and Arthur knew the sentence he had to give.

Arthur’s always known that magic was evil. He grew up fearing the unknown power and had lost many loved ones to its destruction and corruption. Magic destroys. The dragon and all those countless magical armies that had attack Camelot had proved that. Magic corrupts. Morgana had proved that.

But Merlin isn’t Morgana, nor is he a dragon. It’s _Merlin_ , goofy, sweet Merlin! Merlin, who can’t even wield a sword properly. Merlin, who hides in bushes and up trees during battles. Merlin, the worst servant he’s ever had. Merlin, the best friend he’s ever had.

Arthur wracked his mind for an alternate- anything other than killing his friend would do! Imprisonment was out- he could always escape, even in the caves where the dragon had been held. After all, the dragon had escaped. Exile was out- he could amass a huge army and come to seek revenge, even though that’s not like Merlin at all. But the people of Camelot would know that he, Arthur Pendragon, had been too weak to slay a sorcerer. Of course, pretending it never happened was out as well. He was sure that the Roundtable knights wouldn’t say anything, but what if Merlin was found out at court? Arthur would be shamed for letting a sorcerer live right under his nose for nearly a decade, and he’d _have_ to kill Merlin then.

He had to think.

Closing his eyes, Arthur tried to remember everything he’d ever learned about sorcery. There was nothing. His mind was blank. _It’s shock_ , something in his brain told him. _You just found about a life changing fact and your brain is shutting down_.

There was no use in trying to think anymore. He opened his mouth to speak and found that his throat was dry. He licked his lips and spoke. “I will pass judgment tomorrow morning. It is getting late. We ought to eat and then sleep. Sir Gwaine, Sir Percival, go out and hunt for some food. Sir Elyan, come with me to help gather firewood and set up camp. Sir Leon, keep watch over Mer- _the sorcerer_. Make sure that he doesn’t escape,” he heard himself say. Leon was the obvious choice to guard Merlin; he was the most loyal to Camelot and had been serving Arthur and his father before him the longest. If there was a single knight who wouldn’t help Merlin escape, no matter how close he was to him, it was Leon. It was Gwaine whom he couldn’t trust to guard Merlin. The king was pretty sure that he’d even go so far as to knock out every single one of the knights he’d sworn loyalty to in order to save the manservant. He and Merlin had a bond, and unlike Arthur, he didn’t have the obligation to carry out the laws of Camelot no matter what the circumstances.

He was dimly aware of the knights voicing their consent and he heard them begin to leave. There was a gentle tug at his arm from Elyan, telling him to go. Leaving the clearing, he turned back to look at the retreating backs of his other two knights, to look back at his dearest friend who may have actually not been as good of a friend as he thought he’d been.

All he saw was Leon binding Merlin’s limbs together.

* * *

The rest of the day had been quiet. Arthur and Elyan had returned from gathering firewood, arms laden with dry branches. Gwaine and Percival somehow managed to get a boar- a relatively small one, but more than enough for the party. Leon had been sitting, sparing glances once in a while at their prisoner. And Merlin was sitting, silent and distant, his head still bowed. His arms had been bound behind his back and his legs were tied together at the ankles. There was a length of rope which tied his hands to the tree he was sitting against. His eyes were open but they were blank as well. There was no sign of the boy they’d come to love.

Night fell. Elyan had taken over with the cooking. Years of living on his own had forced him to learn to cook, and he was fairly good as well. Arthur had brought a bowl over to Merlin. He had continued to stare down at the ground, making no acknowledgment to his friend or the food. The stew continued to sit by his feet, growing colder by the minute.

There was no friendly chatter by the fire tonight. Gwaine didn’t tell any stories, and there was a conspicuous lack of sass from Merlin. But that was to be expected. After all, he was most likely going to die the next morning. That tends to take the sass out of anyone.

At the end of the night, the worst part was when they were going to sleep and Arthur had to assign watches. Not just to watch for bandits, but to keep their prisoner from escaping. Their prisoner, who just happened to be _Merlin_ , who happened to be a sorcerer, and a powerful one at that. In the end, it was Elyan first shift, Leon second, and he’d take the third for himself. Gwaine couldn’t be trusted because Arthur, and everyone around him, blatantly knew that Gwaine’s loyalty was first and foremost to Merlin; not Arthur, not the knights, not Camelot, but Merlin. Percival, on the other hand, was too kindhearted. Though he didn’t have the same bond with Merlin Gwaine and Arthur did, he was too loyal to all of his friends.

It took a lot out of Arthur to do this. To think about his friends so objectively, to have to evaluate their trustworthiness based on the chances of them betraying their friend— possibly to his death. Frankly, all he wanted to do was sleep it away. Perhaps he’d wake up in the morning and have it all be a dream. Perhaps he didn’t have to kill his best friend without betraying his kingdom.

* * *

Merlin spent the night awake. There was so much to do to prepare for his death. Letters had to be written to his mother, to Gaius, and of course, to Arthur and the rest of the Roundtable for when they get back, and then he’d have to make sure that his will was accurate. He’d always known that eventually, he’d be found out. By whom, he didn’t know. From what circumstances, he didn’t know either. And he certainly didn’t know what would happen afterwards. Plus, if he was asleep, he wouldn’t feel it if the wards were broken. He’d sworn to protect Arthur at any cause, even if it meant his death.

He closed his eyes and reached for the magic coursing through his veins, without any spells or incantations, nothing to alert Leon of his use of magic. Despite Arthur’s lenience so far, he knew that if any of the knights suspected him of using magic, he could be killed on sight.

He let his mind follow his magic. He could see it all— the quill dipping itself into ink, forming beautifully scripted letters that he could never have made by hand.

_I, Merlin, known to the Druids as Emrys, acknowledge this as my Last Will and Testament. Any and all money in my ownership goes to my mother, Hunith of Ealdor. My books and anything else of academic or intellectual value goes to Gaius, Court Physician of Camelot…_

Once that was started, he had to start on his other letters. For these, he let the letters take the shape of his normal chicken-scratch writing.

_Dear Arthur,_

_I know that I have a lot to explain to you. Ten years with you and you never knew this about me. This one, big, essential part of me. I know that you must feel hurt, betrayed, and I’m sorry. The thing is, if you’re reading this, it means that I’m dead. This particular letter means that I knew that I was going to die and managed to make preparations in time. My will should be on my bed. Please honor it._

_I’d like you to know the full story about me. You see, I was born in Ealdor to my mother, Hunith, and my father, who didn’t know at the time, Balinor…_

* * *

Arthur was shaken awake by Leon in time for his shift. Still a bit groggy, he stumbled out of his bedroll and went to go sit by the fire. He suddenly noticed a figure sitting by a tree. It was Merlin.

“Merlin, what’re you—” the words died in his throat as the events of the previous evening came back to him.

_Merlin! A sorcerer! How—_

And then he realized that he still had a dilemma on his hands. He had to figure out a way to not kill his best friend and yet still stay (at least somewhat) true to the laws of Camelot. But then again, it would’ve been even harder if his father was still king. At least now no one could override his decisions unless if he died, and his people loved him too much to kill him. Right?

He watched the flames, wracking his brain for anything, _anything_ that could spare Merlin’s life without endangering the kingdom. Hell, he’d even turn to magic, if that’s what it’ll take.

* * *

The dawn came quickly. Merlin, with bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, was still awake. He’d not slept a wink last night. After finishing his letters and will, he stayed up, desperately trying to reach Kilgarrah with the mental link that all creatures of magic had. There’d been no reply— the Great Dragon couldn’t hear him from so far away, mental link or not. The only way that Merlin could contact him would be to shout out and call him in the Dragon Tongue, and he knew that that wouldn’t go over very well with the knights.

They ended up having Arthur pass judgment in a small clearing. It was bright, with wildflowers scattered about. Birds sang in the trees and rabbits and squirrels ran about. It was quite a nice place. Merlin wouldn’t mind dying here. It was peaceful. It was beautiful.

“Kneel.” Arthur’s voice was strong and commanding, but Merlin could hear a hint of a waver in his voice.

Merlin dutifully knelt down in front of his king, head bowed and staring at the ground. Leon and Percival stood on either side of him while Gwaine and Elyan stood a little bit behind Arthur.

“Merlin of Ealdor, son of Hunith. You have been charged with the crime of sorcery, which falls under the crime of high treason against the kingdom of Camelot, the punishment for which is death.” Arthur stopped speaking for a moment and looked at his manservant- _ex_ -manservant. Merlin could feel his gaze on him and grit his teeth, refusing to look up. Sensing this, Arthur continued.

“However, due to your years of loyal service to the Crown and the circumstance in which you were using your magic, your punishment has been significantly reduced.”

At this, Arthur was treated with four incredulous looks from the knights. Merlin even looked up from under his lashes at Arthur for a split second before looking back down.

“Rather than face the pyre or the headman’s axe, you will give two oaths: one swearing loyalty to the Crown and the other swearing to never speak of your magic. Furthermore, there is one more component. There is a spell that removes any connection a sorcerer has to magic. It purges the magic from their body and permanently blocks off any connection they may have. I wish for you to perform this spell on yourself.”

Merlin suddenly looked up. He knew of the spell Arthur was speaking of; he’d come across it once in Gaius’s book. It stuck in his mind because if its purpose, because of its power. And he remembered it because of its danger. The spell was irreversible; there was absolutely no way to undo its effects, and it was impossible to block if casted.

The relief of the knights was palpable. The tension decreased immensely and he thought he heard Gwaine let out a breath of relief.

He looked towards Arthur. “Is this your final judgment?”

The king looked at his loyal servant and friend. “Yes. Are you willing to accept this punishment in lieu of the death penalty?”

Merlin knew that everyone wanted him to say yes.

“Anything for Camelot.”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were gold.

* * *

Arthur watched as his manservant began the complex spell. He never knew it’d be so long. He was only grateful that he’d thought of it in time; it was a much better solution than anything else that could’ve come up. He’d still have Merlin with him with no chance of his powers corrupting him and turning him evil. It was perfect.

As Merlin continued casting the spell, Arthur felt drawn to the rich tone and cadence of his friend’s voice. Unlike its usual lighthearted tone, this one sounded much more powerful and the exotic language of the spell was soothing to listen to. It was too bad Arthur couldn’t let Merlin keep his magic; he’d have liked to be able to this more often.

* * *

Merlin was nearly done with the spell. He could feel it, the sudden influx of power.

_Might as well enjoy it now since I’ll never experience it again._

He continued on, finally uttering the last part of the spell, “ _…gafol þes ríce bæc mín afol, swicol ágénbewendan_!”

As the remaining dregs of magic vacated his body, he suddenly realized the enormity of what he’d just done. Of how this declaration of loyalty will impact the world. Of how stupid he was to accept this punishment. It would’ve been better for him to accept the pyre or the headsman’s block.

He didn’t consciously want to say his last words, but they still came in the Dragon Tongue, his final plea for forgiveness.

“ _Mae'n ddrwg gen i, y Kilgarrah. Rwyf wedi methu y Brenin Unwaith ac yn y Dyfodol. Rwyf wedi methu hud._ ”

_I am sorry, Kilgarrah. I have failed the Once and Future King. I have failed magic._

* * *

As Merlin finished the spell, his body was suddenly bathed in golden light, which quickly fled from his body, bursting out from his eyes and his mouth. As it began to fade, he saw a small, blue orb float out of the sorcerer’s chest. The same orb that had saved him all those years ago in that dank cave while trying to save Merlin. The orb floated up into the air and then suddenly exploded into a puff of smoke. Arthur was pained to see something so beautiful destroyed, and he had to remind himself that it was magic, and that it’d turn dark someday. He was just able to get rid of it before it did.

Finally, all the light faded from Merlin’s body and his eyes turned back into their normal blue and then fluttered shut. There was a great roar from somewhere. Arthur quickly rushed over to his friend’s side and shook his shoulder.

“Merlin! Merlin, are you alright?” he asked. “It’s over! You’re cured!”

He immediately realized that something was wrong when he noticed that the body was cold. “M-merlin?”

Gwaine had rushed over, too, and was looking at Arthur with a look of horror. Percival, Leon, and Elyan came over as well, and the oldest knight bent over and pressed two fingers to the manservant’s neck. His brow furrowed in confusion before his expression morphed into one of disbelief, denial, and then horror, mirroring Gwaine’s.

“S-s-sire, he’s… dead,” Leon choked out.

Arthur barely heard him. _Dead? Merlin couldn’t be dead. He was fine. We got rid of the magic that would’ve destroyed him. He should be fine. Right?_

He looked at his knight in disbelief. “Of course he’s not dead, you moron. Check again. He’s weak. You probably just missed it.”

This time, Percival was the one to check for a pulse. He shook his head. “There’s nothing, sire.”

Arthur sighed in exasperation. “You idiots,” he muttered, pressing two fingers to his friend’s neck. There was nothing, not even a tiny twitch. “That’s odd,” he mused out loud. He moved his fingers to Merlin’s wrist. Still nothing. Beginning to get confused, he checked everywhere that he knew he could find a pulse on a man’s body. There was nothing.

The knights were all looking at their king apprehensively. Arthur didn’t notice. He was too busy checking for breath, pressing his ear to his friend’s chest where the little blue orb had just floated from just moments before. Nothing.

He began to panic. “He’s just unconscious,” he said out loud, wanting desperately for someone to confirm it. “He’s fine. He’s still alive.”

Leon shook his head. “You felt it,” he said. “There’s no pulse, sire. He can’t be alive.”

Arthur frowned, shaking his head. “No no no no no. You’re mistaken. He’s just weak. We need to get him to Gaius. He can help.”

Gwaine groaned in annoyance. “He’s dead, okay? He can’t come back to life. Gaius can’t help him. Whatever he just did— whatever you just made him do— it killed him. Got that? You killed him. He’s dead and he’s not coming back! Ever!” he yelled angrily.  

Arthur just looked at the knight, refusing to accept the role he had possibly played in his friend’s death. “No. He died from something else. There was— there was that roar thing when he died. Maybe that was what killed him. It can’t be the spell. Sorcerers can live without magic; I mean, that’s what they did before they learned it. Plus, the spell is relatively safe; the only dangerous part is to sorcerers, and the only harm it can do is blocking a person’s access to magic. That can’t kill anyone.”

“Well, apparently it can kill Merlin.”

And with that, Sir Gwaine turned his back on his king and left the clearing, leaving the king and two of his knights with the limp body of their friend.

* * *

Guinevere and Gaius already knew before they returned, thanks to three little scrolls appearing a little after dawn. The queen’s face was tear-streaked and the physician seemed diminished. When they saw the body, they reacted appropriately: Gwen let out an anguished cry and sobbed while Gaius couldn’t look away from the body of his son in everything but blood.

Both of them knew his secret. Neither of them cared.

* * *

Merlin’s funeral was held that evening. Arthur laid the small, limp body on the pyre, a body that had held so much power. Merlin seemed smaller than ever, and his face was frighteningly pallid in death. He was dressed in his normal clothing, which had been washed along with his body before his send off. Arthur had debated whether to dress him in a red shirt and blue neckerchief or vice-versa and ended up picking the latter, along with his brown pants and jacket.

Gwaine had come back. He told Arthur that he would leave the next morning, perhaps never to return. His only good friend had died and there was little left for him in Camelot anymore. He’d always served Merlin, not Camelot, and Arthur knew this. He bade him farewell but told him to keep the weapons and chain mail he’d been issued as a knight. He may need them later on in his travels. Merlin would’ve wanted him to keep them. Arthur also gave Gwaine one of Merlin’s red neckerchiefs, which the ex-knight immediately tied onto his belt. He left before the service was over, unable to watch his only friend burn. He was clutching a folded up piece of paper to his side.

It was hard for Arthur to watch the flames consume the body. It was actually quite ironic; he’d made Merlin perform that spell in order to _prevent_ him from burning and here he was, burning at a pyre anyways. At least here, Merlin died as a loyal servant rather than a treasonous sorcerer.

When the body was reduced to ashes, Arthur swept them into a jar, which he kept in his chambers. He would decide what to do with them later. Merlin deserved something meaningful.

As he settled into bed that knight next to Guinevere, the queen handed him a wad of paper. “It’s from Merlin,” she said quietly in explanation.

Arthur quickly unfolded it and looked at the familiar, messy scrawl. He felt a pang in his chest as he read every word, determined to see what his manservant had to say for himself.

* * *

He stayed up all knight, unable to sleep. He’d read Merlin’s note at least ten times and spent the remaining time thinking about him.

In the morning, he went to see Gaius to ask him to tell him about all of Merlin’s adventures. All of Merlin’s great feats. About Merlin, the clumsy servant. Merlin, the warlock known as Emrys. Merlin, the last Dragonlord. Merlin, the most noble man ever to have lived.

* * *

Magic was allowed in Camelot once again.

Arthur had spent months arguing with the Council on the topic. “Magic,” he argued, “Is about as evil as a sword is. Its nature depends on the one who wields it.”

The Council had slowly and reluctantly allowed Arthur to make the changes. However, using magic malevolently was still illegal, and using it to harm Camelot was still treason, just as it was for any other weapon.

After the ink had finally dried on the law (and the treaty with the druids, for that matter), Arthur returned to his rooms to change and grab the earthenware jar that’d been sitting there for months. He returned to the clearing where Merlin had died, the urn of his ashes in his arms. He came alone, dressed in simple clothes. He was determined to make this count. To do what he thought Merlin would’ve wanted him to do.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur closed his eyes. It was peaceful, just as it’d been that day all those months ago when Merlin died. He opened his eyes again and took a handful of the ashes and scattered them to the wind. For a moment, he thought he could hear Merlin’s voice again and remembered his words all those years ago:

_“I’m happy to be your servant till the day I die.”_

Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirped a soft _kee-kee-kee_.

A merlin.

**Fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> *Spell (or at least the part I included) translation: … let this power leave my body, never to return!  
> No, I did not use “enormity” incorrectly. I actually do mean a grave crime.  
> Also, I translated all the spells word for word. The grammar/syntax is all English. The language I used is Old English.  
> The language I used for the Dragon Tongue is Welsh. I used Google Translate. I know it sucks. I’m sorry for butchering the language so much.
> 
> This fic was originally posted on FanFiction.Net on the account, 42.Is.the.Answer.


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